For the Asking
by Ghani Hwi
Summary: Trying to blend a more Homeric feel into the Briseis-Achilles romance. Turning out longer than I expected, but I'm still enjoying writing it, so I figure what the hoo-ha. Part V posted.
1. Part I

**For the Asking**

* * *

The vista was bare and rough. A spit of desert that looked as though some mighty hand had scratched a furrow through the surrounding mountains, leaving just a few stunted scrubs and burnt grasses in its wake. Wind picked up grit and sand from the stone monoliths surrounding the valley, carrying it in stinging waves across the barren landscape- its coming heralded by hollow moaning as the gusts passed through imperfections in the rock edifice.

Across this empty, desolate place came a sound foreign to the normally lifeless landscape. A sharp, metallic noise that sounded as though some distant hammer were striking an anvil furiously, repeatedly. This sound was followed by another: more clear and distinctive than the first. A furious wail, imparted from what could only be a human mouth, rolling across the ground, filling the landscape for a moment before leaving on the wind that always seemed to be carrying across the land. The scream rose in pitch before dying out completely, lost to the desert.

Movement focused attention in this open desert, drawn to two men slowly circling each other in ever reducing concentric circles. One dragged his leg behind him slowly, leaving a gritty trail of blood in the trench his heel created. The steadily flowing rivulets of blood ran the length of his leg, their source a deep gash running from his inner groin upward across his left thigh. The femoral artery was untouched, but visible from the surface and in danger of rupturing. The man took no notice of this, turning his copper blade over in his hand, feeling its familiar weight and thrust.

His opponent stood, not unscratched, but with mostly superficial wounds. Nonetheless, both men were exhausted and their furrowed brows were beaded with sweat. The sun gave them no mercy, beating upon their backs and necks with furious heat, rendering their armor slick and suffocating.

Without warning, the wounded man attacked, drawing his blade low and meeting its mark by virtue of surprise. The startled opponent dropped to his knees, each of his calves now marked by the crude line of a well-sharpened blade. Blood gushed freely from the wounds, brining their own level of pain. Just as the man drew forward to slice his blade cleanly across his opponent's neck, the man on his knees turned quickly, thrusting upward. His aim was true, and drove the tip of his blade through the intercostals of his opponent, leaving it to rest inside the lower cavity of his heart. With a fluid motion he removed the weapon as gracefully as if it were being pulled from a sheath. Thick, crimson lifeblood raced down its length, over the hilt, and down his own arm. It was finished.

His opponent fell in surprise, clutching his hand to his chest as his precious blood left between his fingers in torrents. His body fell into the dust with a dull thud, haloing him in sand briefly before the dust settled about him, leaving only the victor at his side, still on his knees.

Slowly, his calves screaming in protest, the man drew himself up to his full stature, pulling dust and grit-filled breaths into his lungs. His tongue was coated in sand, and his dry coughing did nothing to wet his parched throat- sweat was standing on his skin in beads and rivers. His sword, coated thickly with blood and dirt hung at his side, gripped in an arm sheathed with the blood of his fallen enemy.

As he looked down upon his defeated adversary, he did not lord; nor did he rejoice. In their stead came an overwhelming sense of loss- of desperate sorrow. He could not place the origin of his emotions; they seemed to press outward from his soul and simultaneously inward from his skin. Every inch of his body ached with exhausted fury; each breath he summoned was agony.

And then, the pain seemed to dull into gray. The world about him pitched and yawed, diving into darkness before returning to the yellow and brown world where his body lay next to his brethren in battle. Pain abated to dull warmth, and he felt as though his body had become like so many wisps of cloud- weightless and detached.

---

His eyes slowly opened, the dream still clinging with their weight to his eyelids. For a moment he thought himself still in that desert landscape, the heat surrounding him seemed to leaden the air. Then, slowly, it came to him. He was not in the desert; in point of fact he was very far from it. Beached upon the coast of the Aegean, he sat at the cusp of a mighty sea, and the heat was that of midday. He had awoken to the same oppressive heat, same salt-heavy air, same crudely fashioned tent for nearly five months, and yet still he felt a sense of unreality each time he opened his eyes. This land was not his home, though he felt certain in some distant way that it was the foreign soil over which his ashes would be spread, to be carried by foreign winds across lands he would never see.

"My Lord Achilles." Eudoras stood silhouetted against the opening of his general's tent, waiting with calm patience for acknowledgement. Achilles suffered no impatient officers- haste had been the mistress of needless death for too long to regard her lightly. Slowly standing to his full height, Achilles turned his eyes to Eudoras, who took his cue to deliver his message.

"The slave girl- the Trojan. Agamemnon has released her from his service." Achilles stared at him a moment longer, boring through him with inscrutable dark eyes. Then, without response, he turned to his washing basin, the water dirty with salt from the sea. As he drew the tepid water to his face, he felt the muscles working there- what to do about this news?

"Does Agamemnon send her spoilt back to me? To dine upon the crumbs that fall from his table, lick the wine that spills from his chalice and thus consider myself content and grateful?" Eudoras turned his eyes shamefully to the ground, fury and anger burning behind their darkened orbs. Agamemnon had indeed insulted Achilles most unjustly- Eudoras' own outrage at this scandal was staved only at his beloved leader's command. Achilles bore the insult with a brooding quite that Eudoras knew all to well to harbor a rage he never wished to bear witness to.

"He does not return my Lord's prize- he has given her over to his men for sport."

Achilles was upon his armor in a moment, the upturned basin spilling water across the open sand that composed the floor of his quarters. Eudoras stepped back sharply- Achilles' anger was breeching its holds.

"Pompous, sluggardly fool! He is no more fit to bear the title "king" than a hog is allowed to eat at the tables of men! Is there no vice into which his greedy hands will not grasp?" His voice rose to a full and terrible timbre- hatred filling each word with such venom that many a mighty man would have fallen down trembling at his feet. Eudoras backed out of the entryway, leaving Achilles to prepare in solitude- his message had been delivered, and to remain close to the raging man seemed ill advised. His temper was legend for good reason, and Eudoras would not have wished his most desperate enemy on the sharp end of Achilles' wrath. Agamemnon was a fool for slighting so powerful a man, and many secretly felt his end would be met upon the hilt of a Myrmidon blade.

Achilles tightened his sword against his thigh, feeling its reassuring weight and sending a silent prayer that one day Agamemnon would know its weight as well.

"When it meets the flesh of his soft belly." Quickly he strode into the midday light, leaving in the direction of Agamemnon's encampment.

---

"Trojan bitch!" Asaeus spat bright red into the once white sand of the Trojan shore- turned a dull gray by the passing footsteps of thousands upon her virgin coast. The stain stood markedly against the gray pallet, causing all who were gathered around the cowering girl to pause momentarily.

"She has a set of claws about her! Time to tame this cat!" Another soldier threw his weight into her body, knocking her onto her back as a scream was torn from her lips. He brought the back of his hand against her face with a sharp snap.

Her bottom lip felt as though it had burst open as stars swept across her eyes in a dazzling array. The warm, coppery taste of blood coated her tongue and as she hitched in another breath to scream she felt her throat constrict, every passageway blocked by her own blood. Her body spasmed involuntarily, spitting a thin mist of blood and spit across her assailants' face.

"Bitch!" He slapped her again, and this time she did not have to speculate that her upper lip had split open. He roughly grabbed her cheeks, forcing her eyes into his own- his expression carried only delight. She felt someone else grab great handfuls of her hair; its separation from her scalp was marked only with a distant, tearing pain. Her flailing arms were caught and pinned, each writhing thrust of her body met with another pair of groping hands to still her movement. She felt her robes being split, the last defense against her attackers wrenched from her skin, leaving her body exposed and helpless. From some distant place she heard the men around her laughing, the smell of their sweat filling her lungs and galling her. Their animal excitement was palpable as she closed her eyes and felt a rough, bearded face rub against her own, wet with sweat and blood.

"Achilles!" The word cut its way through the melee with a forcefulness that stilled everyone's motions. There was a quick sound of sword grinding against bone and then a river of blood, still warmed by its owner, fell across her naked body. She could not force her eyes open, even as every pair of hands and arms wrapped about her fell away in one movement. She was crying, though she did not know it herself.

Two arms slipped beneath her neck and legs, lifting her with effortless ease. Even in her terror, there was strength left in her body, and with every breath her scorched lungs would allow her, she beat against the man who now carried her, even as he bore her away from the lustful soldiers who had been making sport of her. The noise of their frustration and confusion soon fell behind her, to be replaced by the rolling tide crashing against the shores of Troy.

From the stifling heat they entered into a tent, its relative coolness salving her bare skin and cooling the sweat upon her body. She reopened her eyes and felt her heart lurch upward into her throat, closing the passageway to no more than a pin's breadth.

He laid her down on the floor and just as quickly she scuttled away from him like a whipped dog, her large brown eyes wide with fear. She made no motion to cover her naked body, and in fact seemed not to notice it at all as her chest heaved up and down, her eyes never leaving his for a moment.

As for Achilles, he regarded her briefly, remembering only slightly her appearance when first she came into his hold. Now she looked more feral than human, and once again Achilles felt his loathing for Agamemnon rise into his throat like a bitter gall. He stood and left the tent, returning a few moments later with two other men. Between them they carried a copper bathing tub; once it was set and prepared they quietly left.

"Bathe." Achilles threw a clean robe at the foot of the basin, and then disappeared into the sunlight, leaving her alone.

---

Briseis brought her fingertips up to her lips. They were swollen and sensitive to touch, but the bleeding had stopped and they did not appear to be severely damaged. Her hands traced the line of her jaw up to the scalp, wet with blood where the men had cuffed her and pulled great patches of her hair from their roots. Every inch of her body ached as she stood on unsteady legs, looking like a newborn calf as she tottered towards the glimmering copper bath.

The water was cool to the touch, and as clean as could be expected of water gathered from the churning Aegean. Briseis sat in the basin, allowing the water to rise up to her chest. The salt stuck her like so many needles, causing her breath to catch sharply and her face twist into a grimace of pain. Slowly, she began to wash the blood from her body, removing the sticky crimson scales to reveal her familiar ivory skin beneath. The supple cloth left for her use felt like coarse parchment scratching away at her wounds a bruises.

She could not stifle the cry that escaped her mouth when she pressed the cloth against her lips. Tears slipped down her face, adding to the bitter salt already stinging her cuts. She curled into a ball in the water, turned bright pink by her own blood, and resting her arms against her knees, allowed her fear and pain to pour out in rivers from her eyes.

---

Achilles did not return until well past sundown, his brow dark with thoughts and troubles. He did not spare Briseis a glance, but instead shed his clothing absentmindedly and fell down upon his bed of furs.

As for herself, Briseis curled into the corner farthest from his bed, but found sleep elusive as she watched his shoulders rise and fall in dreamless rest. He did not force her to share his bed tonight, but that was not indicative of his temper tomorrow. These thoughts did little to allay her fears as she wrapped her arms about her shoulders tightly, subduing the shudders that ran the length of her spine.

The food at her feet stood untouched where a man, one of the two who had brought in the basin, had laid it after her bath. It was a modest platter laden mostly with fruit- the vast farmlands outside of the protective city walls of Troy had obviously been plundered and their riches shared amongst the Achaean armies. For the moment her hunger was great, but not so much that she could bear eating food that her countrymen had shed blood over.

The clothes Achilles had left her however, she refused to touch. She did not have to study the weaving or patterns to know instinctively that they once belonged to a Trojan woman. How they had come into the possession of an Achaean Briseis dared not speculate.

As night waned to morning, sleep came to her slowly, though troubled and filled with dark dreams.


	2. Part II

**For the Asking**

* * *

Achilles felt the warm sunlight of midmorning force its way into his sleep, rousing him from a dreamless world of gray and black. He turned his eyes to where Briseis slept. Her body was curled into itself tightly and though she was still asleep, her dreams were troubling and more than once he heard her moan quietly.

He noticed with some agitation her clothing was the same rags she had been brought in with; the robe he had left for her remained untouched in the sand. His impulse to wake her and force her to dress herself properly was staved as she shifted slowly, exposing the smooth white flesh of her thigh. He suddenly found himself captivated by her body- its soft lines and curves blending into one another with effortless grace. That Agamemnon had defiled such glorious beauty!

Achilles' eyes narrowed viciously, thoughts too harrowing to ever be set down in ink pouring through his mind with the fury of a thrashing river. He swallowed thickly, feeling a tightness in his throat as the thought of Briseis sharing Agamemnon's bed crossed his mind, and not for the first time. With fluid stealth he crossed the tent and knelt at her side, her sleep still undisturbed. Achilles watched her face closely, marking each cut and bruise- they would each be repaid tenfold upon those who had inflicted them.

Briseis stirred briefly, her eyes opening against the sunlight streaming in through the entryway. Her deep brown eyes focused on Achilles sitting in the sand near her side and in a moment were opened full wide. She breathed in quickly and pushed backward, the impact of her back hitting the wall of the tent knocking the impulse to scream out of her. Achilles made no motion to touch her.

"What do you want of me?" The strength of her voice surprised even herself, what scant sleep she had enjoyed did not appear to have helped her exhaustion in the slightest. Her heart was palpitating so painfully she felt certain it would burst from her chest at any moment.

"Your dress is undignified. Wear this." Achilles placed the Trojan robe in front of Briseis, who in turn made no move to touch it. She stared at it for a long moment, then turned her face to the side, speaking with a defiance that she had thought all but lost to Agamemnon's corporal punishment.

"I will not wear it." Achilles raised his eyebrows slightly; apparently Agamemnon had not beaten the insolence out of her. Perhaps that is why he had released her to the dogs. Achilles watched her closely, noting the quiver of her lips as she braced herself for the snap of his hand across her face. He waited a moment, allowing her to remember her place before he spoke.

"Wear it. No Trojan woman lost her life for it. It was discovered in an abandoned hut on the outskirts of a vineyard." Achilles rose and dressed slowly, noticing her shuffling movements behind him. When he turned again to face her, she was standing in the cerulean robe, her eyes cast to the ground.

"Eat. You are hungry." She obediently knelt in front of the plate, picking a ripe grape and chewing it slowly. She was aware of his staring eyes, but the first taste of food in nearly two days caused her stomach to pitch and roll, growling for more.

"Your name. Briseis, is it not?" She nodded slowly, drawing a cup of wine to her lips.

"And do you know my name?" At this she looked up at him, nodding again.

"You are Achilles." Once again her voice was not so tremulous as she would have expected it to be. Memories of Agamemnon still bore their raw horror in her mind, some worse than all others, but all salved with each passing moment she was out of his company. Their dreams would follow her for many years to come.

"Does that name frighten you?" He did not seem to be seeking food for his pride, and therefore Briseis thought to test the boundaries of his patience once again. Her voice however, was much more timid this time- willful defiance against so great a warrior stilled even the bravest of hearts.

"Should it?"

Achilles stared at her heavily- his eyes boring through her and Briseis felt her stomach lurch up and against her ribs. She had overstepped her boundaries. Quickly, she lowered her head, waiting for the strike to fall. Time took on a viscous quality, losing all of its fluid motion in favor of sluggish forward momentum that seemed to span an eternity. A hand, calloused by years of battle and roughened through a lifetime of war pressed against her chin, raising her mahogany eyes to the light.

Achilles stared into these indiscernible deep pools for a moment, then dropped his hand and left the tent. Briseis watched him leave, too terrified to move.

---

Once again, it was long past the rising of the moon when Achilles returned; this time his hands and his sword stained a ruddy brown. Briseis heart beat with trepidation. This time he took notice of her as he undressed and scrubbed his skin with water and oils.

"Your wounds have been repaid. None of the men will ever harm you again." At first she was motionless, allowing the meaning of his words to break upon her with their full effect. Then, with a boldness she could not control, she rose to her feet. This motion brought Achilles to a stop, his eyes watching her intently as water ran in rivulets down the length of his arms and chest.

"I do not desire anyone to be harmed on my account. Your defense of my honor was not asked for and nor shall it be seen as such in my eyes." In a moment he was upon her, his naked body pressing against hers, forcing her into the wall. She did not quail, nor did she avert her eyes.

"When you were Trojan you were of a small importance. As an Achaean slave you are lacking in manners."

"I am still Trojan. And you…are only a brute and a killer." He moved against her, the smell of sweat intermixed with bathing oils filled her lungs and for a moment she felt her body flushed with warmth. Achilles watched her closely for a long moment, marking the color in her cheeks and wondering to himself absently if Agamemnon had indeed bedded her.

"You speak as though no man who has killed ever held favor in your sight." Achilles pushed away and returned to his bath, splashing water against his neck and through his shock of barley-colored hair.

"The men I know killed for reason." Achilles fixed her with a pointed stare.

"So do I."

---

Briseis stepped out into the sunlight, shading her eyes against the glare from the sea of armor and weapons scattered about the encampment. The Myrmidon guard took little notice of her- she had been under their general's guard for well over a month. Eudoras however, marked her every movement- Achilles had given him specific orders to watch her closely- no man was to touch her.

She walked toward the sea, allowing its pulse to rush through her veins and return her mind to happier times, before the Achaeans had come. When she tried to remember those days in the house of Briseus, she found her memories, once so clear and vivid, were fading into gray. Soon those happy times would be all but lost to her, only the memories of her current state would remain. Her memories of Agamemnon.

Shuddering, Briseis hugged her shoulders and turned her eyes toward Troy. The embankment was too high to see more than a few hundred yards, yet she knew her beloved city was not so very far away from the shore. Just beyond these ramparts of sand stood her home, haggard by the trials of war, but otherwise just as she remembered it.

Achilles had not forced her into his bed, and Briseis had come to suspect that he would not. Though the reason why escaped her, she found her relief far outweighed her curiosity. They had spoken little since his return to the tent covered in blood and for the most part, he allowed her whatever freedom she desired, except the freedom to leave. She was still a slave- still his captive, and though taken by Agamemnon to spite Achilles, still his prize.

There was more movement about the entire camp today than usual, and with quiet eyes Briseis watched the men, their intentions becoming steadily clearer. They would launch an attack against Troy- and soon. Spears clacked together noisily, shields were polished, and swords waited their turn at the grinding stone. Men inspected their armor, shoring up weak spots and polishing it until the golden sheen glared against the midday sun.

Through the teeming masses of soldiers Briseis spotted Achilles, his movement through the throng marked by his unusually colored hair and brazen armor. His long strides carried him from one army to the next, where he spoke briefly with Odysseus and Augeas before turning toward the Myrmidon camp. Briseis returned her eyes to the sea, sending a silent supplication to Apollo that the Trojans would be victorious against the Achaeans.

---

A few days later, the Achaean army en masse reached the summit of the embankment and disappeared over the edge, a cloud of dust in their wake. The low rolling thunder of thousands upon thousands of footsteps never seemed to diminish to Briseis' listening ear. Tears rolled down her cheeks, fear gripping her heart like a vice.

Achilles returned that evening, his arms and chest plate covered in blood and sweat. Briseis cowered away from him, loathing filling every vein in her body. Trojan blood upon Achaean armor, and who knew? Perhaps it was the blood of her father, her cousin, her childhood friends? He pulled the armor from his skin, its red marks embedded deeply into his shoulders and thighs. Then he did something unexpected- he leaned against the basin, gripping the edge tightly with his hands, and sighed as though deeply troubled. He stared into the pool, his mind traveling far away from where he now stood.

Rousing himself from his reveries, Achilles finished cleaning his arms and legs, moving as though still lost in a dream. His movements were sluggish as he fell into his bed and turned his back to Briseis.

When she was certain he had fallen asleep, Briseis slipped across the tent to where Achilles' armor had been stacked with care. She selected from his weapons a small dagger, short of blade but sharp enough for her purposes. Even for so small an instrument, it carried unusual weight as she gripped it tightly in her fist. She was determined that Achilles would not live to ever harm another Trojan.

As she approached his bed, she felt the familiar fear wrap its fingers around her throat. What would happen if she failed? Achilles' shoulders rose and fell in even measure, assuring her that he did in fact sleep. Before her resolve left, Briseis slipped the knife up and brought it within a hair's breadth of his throat. One movement and she could end his life, and in doing so, save the lives of her countrymen who would die upon his blade.

His eyes opened slowly, their slate gray depths gathering the scant light within the tent and sending it back like opalescent pools reflecting candlelight. Briseis felt every muscle in her body seize up in a single moment.

"Take my life- avenge your fallen Trojans." His throat rose as he spoke, pressing the blade ever so slightly into the flesh. A shudder reached her fingers, causing the blade to waver. A cold sweat broke out across her back.

"You will only kill other men if I don't kill you." He raised himself up, allowing the blade to press into the flesh. A thin trickle of blood escaped beneath Briseis' trembling hand.

"Many." Before Briseis had time to react, Achilles snapped his arm up, grasping her wrist and flipping the dagger across the room. She twisted her arm sharply, but Achilles' grip did not waver. He held her arm tightly, but not with undue force. Slowly he pulled her face down to his, breathing in her clean, womanly scent. Once again he noticed a deep blush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

"Tell me, did Agamemnon take you into his bed?" Her eyes darted quickly away as she vainly tried to wrench away from his hold. When he would not yield, she turned again to face him, her eyes liquid with tears.

"Yes." Her words were hardly a whisper, and her voice shook so violently Achilles lowered his eyes in shame. He released her wrist, though she did not pull away quickly, but instead slowly drew herself up and stepped away from where he lay. She slowly turned her back to him, pausing a moment before pulling the shoulders of her robe down to her waist. Her rich dark hair she pulled over her shoulder, exposing the skin beneath.

"He took me into his bed and I scratched his face." She looked back over her naked shoulder at where Achilles lay, then returned her eyes ashamed to the ground.

"He never took me into his chambers again." Her back was crisscrossed with angry red scars where she had been brutally beaten. They ran from her shoulders to the small of her back, some so deep they had yet to be fully healed. So severe a lashing was not even allowed upon beasts. Briseis made no motion to cover her wounds, the horror of the night she had received them played before her eyes in graphic realism. She did not know Achilles had moved until she felt his fingertips tracing the lines of scars upon her back. She breathed in quickly, feeling her skin shudder under his touch.

"No harm will ever come to you by my hands." He spread his fingers out and traced his rough palm down the nape of her neck and into the crook of her shoulder. He could feel the skin grow warm beneath his touch; Briseis made no motion to move away.

"…and Agamemnon will never touch you again."

Briseis' eyes fell upon Achilles' armor, the sand under which it stood soaked red with the blood of her brethren. The crimson stain would be lost to time, but never to her memory. Silent anguish filled her chest, but it was dulled by something different, something that called out from the forgotten corners of her heart. She cried out to that place, finding the answer that returned to her was nothing she had not already known. Her heart raced against her chest as she turned to face Achilles, every movement familiar and yet wholly new.

Achilles met her eyes and was caught in their depth. Slowly, he dipped his hands into her silken tresses, feeling their rich sheen as he brought his lips down to hers. For a moment they remained mere inches away from each other, breathing in short, quickening breaths. Then, the space between them was no more.

Achilles pressed his lips against hers forcefully, and was pleased when she did not waver, but instead rose up to meet him. She tasted of wine and sweet fruit, and each moment seemed an eternity for the mighty warrior. As for Briseis, she wrapped her arms about his naked shoulders, feeling every harrowing scene of violence, of war, of fear, melting away into a peaceful oblivion.

With her own hands, Briseis pushed her robe to the ground, exposing her ivory flesh to the moonlight. Achilles followed the curves of her body with his eyes, touching her as though she were made of rare porcelain. In the moonlight their naked bodies melted together, blending with the deepening shades of night, each needing the other more than they knew.


	3. Part III

_(a/n: I was seriously going to let this story stand as it was, and then I recieved a review today asking that I please update. So, Sarah, this is for you. Maybe I'll actually finish this someday if people keep nagging me on. ;)_

**For The Asking**

* * *

There is a time in the morning where dream and reality pass each other and become one; when the secrets of night become the waking dreams of early morn. Light slowly pierces the mist, giving the world an iridescent gray sheen that lasts only a few short hours before clearing against the full rising of the sun. The world rests in these hours, allowing those who dream to pass the threshold into reality in one perfect moment of quietude.

Briseis watched the creeping mists of morning cloy their way into the tent before slowly dissipating with the warmth of the sunlight. In this time it was easy to imagine herself back at her father's house, wrapped in the comfort of her own bed, sheltered from all that strove to surmount the walls of Troy. If she closed her eyes and focused her ears on the rolling tide, she could imagine the vista of the city from her stone patio. Troy- spread before her like a great riverbed dotted with smooth, pale rocks, and beyond that, the dark gray line of the Aegean.

Achilles moved against her back, pressing his chest against her shoulder blades and resting his chin upon her shoulder. Briseis felt the dream pass from her mind, to be replaced by the warm comfort of her lover's body. As she relaxed against his chest she felt the memories of the past month slowly pass through her mind with a smooth, ripple-like quality, each memory growing into others gently.

He would return at night, his shoulders bleeding where the straps of his armor had dug deeply into the flesh, his body coated in a sticky paste of dirt, blood, and sweat; face furrowed and always drawn in sorrows Briseis could neither touch nor ease. She came to see and understand his vulnerability during those moments when he came back from battle- physical and mental exhaustion were etched in his face as he neither spoke nor heard others speak. At these times he was lost even to Briseis, and even in her fear for those Trojans he had killed, she found pity strengthened by an ever-growing devotion that helped her gather and clean his armor where he left it abandoned on the sand floor. On one such night, Achilles had noticed this custom of hers and quietly commented upon it.

"I do not ask that you clean the blood of your Trojans from my armor." Briseis slowly stopped her scrubbing, each hand pink up to the wrist. She turned her eyes to Achilles, his own watching her with self loathing filling their every shadow.

"In this way I pay homage to those I love." He understood the quiet meaning of her words, though they did nothing save deepen the crease of his brow. Though he did not know why, he felt his eyes move toward his hands, their calloused, roughened hills and valleys rising to meet his gaze with stubborn refusal to be forgotten for what they were. The hands of a warrior, not a lover.

"I spare no love for anyone. My life is manifest in dealing death. Your love is wasted on me." Briseis said nothing, but the soft noise of her cleaning did not pause as Achilles laid down, his eyes turned to the wall.

-

The army had not returned for many days, and Briseis had seen nothing of Achilles, nor the Myrmidon soldiers, save those left to guard her. She passed these hours in tormented thought, even her walks along the now blackened beaches of the Aegean gave her none of their usual pleasure. What should happen were Troy to fall? What should happen if it did not?

Somewhere amidst the din of her memories stood two opposing forces, grappling for control her heart. On one shore stood Achilles, his tall figure clad in armor that shamed the dullness of the sun; the other side was occupied by her family, friends, her past. One could not suffer the other's presence- one would have to be driven out. The thought of living with neither brought a tightness to Briseis' throat, but she had long decided never again to suffer the weakness of tears.

There was something wholly peaceful about the Aegean, despite its ever restless ebb and flow. Briseis breathed in deeply, allowing the thick, salty air to coat her lungs and fill her mouth. She darted her tongue across her lips, tasting the thin layer of salt that had gathered there- it was the taste of her memories- the taste of home. Every pore opened to the warm autumn breeze, its slightly cooler chill heralding the approach of winter to the Trojan lands.

In many ways, she already knew what her decision would be; should she be forced to make it. It had been decided many days ago, when, lying in Achilles' arms, she had seen in his eyes the man he desired to be. Free from the shackles of his fate, his destiny bound to no one's shoulders, save his own. No longer a pawn moving across a board visible only to the Gods, but simply a man who wanted nothing more than a life bereft of weighty prophecy and ominous destiny. She could see- not his love, but his desire to love, which served to endear him within the quiet, secret places of her heart. Places hitherto left to silence and prayer- corners she had not even known of until he had taken her into the fold of his arms.

Suddenly, there arose a cry, thunderous and terrible to hear. It rolled, gathering strength across the land until it broke over the sand embankment and crashed against Briseis' ears. She shuddered against its weight. It were as though the entire Achaean army had bellowed forth in absolute rage.

Sharp spikes of ice mercilessly pounded down the length of her spine, coming to rest in the small of her back. Something horrible had happened- and yet it was something more…something had happened to Achilles. Her flesh crawled in waves so violent she shuddered and suddenly felt very unsteady upon her own legs.

-

Achilles' eyes were so filled with rage that the world spread before him only in matte grays and blacks. His vision had been reduced to a single, finite point. His thoughts entertained nothing save hatred- its thick blackness pouring through every vein in his body, pumping through his heart so savagely the pulse of its effort was all that filled his ears.

_Hector. Hector. Hector._

The name was a poison that fueled the fire of his fury. _Hector. _He would wander the Underworld without his eyes- forced to beg amongst the braggarts and murderers who lined the bank of the river Styx. Hector would die upon his blade, and when the fallen prince lay covered in the dust of his wretched homeland- Achilles would take his body for his prize. Let no honor be awarded to the prince, even in death.

He came into the tent without fully realizing where he was- only knowing that tomorrow, tomorrow he would kill the Prince of Troy. Hector's chest would meet in full the blade of Achilles, his eyes would meet Achilles' and see only his own death in their depths.

Briseis felt every breath of air leave her lungs in a rush, and wondered in a passing thought if she would ever breathe again. Achilles suddenly turned to where she sat, a momentary hatred passing in front of his eyes before he recognized her form. She remained motionless, the tangible hate he had let slip from his eyes humbling her into a terror even Agamemnon could not have inspired. For the first time since coming into his hold, she truly feared for her life. Achilles broke his stare, turning his eyes into the basin of water at the foot of his bed.

Briseis made no motion to move toward him as he pulled and tugged at the leather straps that held his armor in place. With violent shrugs he threw his breastplate and armbands into the ground, managing to bury them even in the well-tamped sand of the tent floor. As she had always done, Briseis moved to pick up his armor so that she might take it to the Aegean and wash it clean.

Achilles moved so quickly she had hardly a moment to react. With a roughness she had never known before from his hands, Achilles grabbed both of her wrists and hauled her up to his face.

"Leave those!" His voice shook with rage, harrowing Briseis to the bone. Her legs gave out beneath her in her sudden terror, and with an angry thrust, Achilles spun her about and threw her out of the tent. Briseis' feet tangled together and she toppled face-forward into the sand just outside of the doorway. The ground rose up to meet her, scoring the length of her cheeks and lips, leaving the quick and familiar taste of blood against her tongue. Her eyes stung instantly as they filled with sand and grit.

Not daring to remain near Achilles, Briseis shakily pushed herself up and ran blindly as fast as her trembling legs would allow. She stopped where the Aegean lapped the shoreline, wishing for a brief moment that she could simply throw herself into those waters and let them carry her outward and away- away from this accursed shore- away from this life. She weakly collapsed to her knees. It was some time before she even realized that her lips and cheeks were bleeding, along with the heels of both her palms. But she was too frightened for tears, too horrified for pain. Her mind was consumed only by Achilles' eyes- black with hatred.


	4. Part IV

a/n: Holy moley. Well, I always knew that if enough people wrote in asking that I work on this, I would. It's still not completely finished, but I'm working on the final installments, and I thought why delay at least posting this? Bear in mind I picked this up after an almost 3 year hiatus, so if it feels different from the other chapters, that's why. Please to enjoy...

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The sea was endless. It started where the thin white foam crept up to her toes with gentle ease, those tender pools withdrawing quickly into rushing breakers that ceaselessly pounded their thunderous tattoo against the earth, then further back into the rolling hillsides of midnight blue, and yet further still beyond that until it seemed the world ended where the sea found the sky. The great expanse swallowed her secrets and kept her children safe- man fancied himself a mighty warrior, a great craftsman, a skilled theorist- but when the sea wanted what was hers, no sword could best her tempest, no ship withstand her rage, no word supplicate her fury. She took what was owed and kept even great men wary of her wrath.

Briseis knelt in the wet sand at the water's edge and studied her hands slowly. They were raw and red, a few drops of blood had welled up, but the pain of their discomfort was a passing shadow, her heart was where the true wound lay. A dagger had buried itself deeply, furiously, and it twisted there still, gnawing its way through the tender meat in search of anything and everything it could destroy. She felt her throat tighten, but quickly swallowed past the thickness.

"I will not cry. I will never cry again." She buried her hands into the rising gray water around her legs, ignoring the sharp sting of the salt water as it found her open wounds. The water felt warm and suddenly, absurdly, Briseis was reminded of summer in the fields of Troy, working slowly through the olive orchards while the low hum of the throaty music from the slaves drifted through the air. Dappled sunlight spotting the ground as the smell of life and the taste of fresh pressed olive oil- smooth to the tongue filled her nose and drew her further and further into the past. There was the warm summer rain, falling at midday, running in rivers down their bodies as they worked through the short-lived downpour. The oil and dirt would slough off her skin and as the sky cleared she felt wonderfully reborn, with her dress clinging wetly to her youthful body she felt naked as a babe and filled to bursting with the wonder of everything around her. The sunlight would return with a merciless intensity that seemed to thicken the very air with its fervor, but Briseis did not mind- it was all part of the mystery and the beauty of the land, her land.

Suddenly the summer warmth was gone, replaced by a quick wind that caught the edge of her sleeves and snapped them smartly. In her reverie, the tide had pulled in around her and she had not noticed that she was now sitting in the middle of a growing tide pool. Her skin was soaked through, her hands had wrinkled at the fingertips, and yet while sitting in the pool seemed ridiculous, Briseis found herself questioning where should she go if not here? She dared not return to Achilles' tent, and the Myrmidons merely tolerated her, though she knew they laughed in their cups at her obvious favor with their lord. The encampment outside of the niche formed by the line of Myrmidon tents was the boundary that marked the end of the world- the mere thought of stepping outside of their protection was foolhardy. Little more than jailers, the Myrmidons were obedient dogs to their master and would never harm her, but out there- out there the others waited.

Once she had noticed one of those beyond the camp watching her as she was cleaning her hair at the water's edge. His face was haggard by wars spent in close combat with beasts and man, but the newest scar ran from ear to lip and was the ugliest of them all- red and shining, still wet with healing from Achilles' lesson in treatment of what he considered his own. The man had stared at her long and hard, his eyes black with hatred and his lip curled into an almost knowing grin. Since that day Briseis had only cleaned her hair well out of site of the rest of the camp. They were all waiting out there- that man and his brothers with scars to match his own. Achilles' disposal of women he tired of was famously known, and the wolves had gathered to patiently wait- the supple doe that was safe at her lover's breast would soon be left to fend for herself, and when that day came, her sweet meat would slake the hurt pride over the wounds that had bought her freedom.

She curled her feet beneath her, still seated in the rising pool of warm Aegean water. The faint smell of corruption stole on a passing breeze, filling her nose and for the first time she wondered where all of the dead of this war were being kept. She had seen but a few funeral pyres burning, and no graves were dug this close to the sea. Where were they keeping their dead? She tried not to pursue this line of thought, it certainly ended only in more sorrow, more wrath turned black as death, more hatred manifest in man destroying man. The stench was overwhelming now that she had noticed it, it seemed to cover her like a film she could not slough off. Before she knew it her hands were gathering great handfuls of the wet sand at her knees and scrubbing it into her arms and hands- the thick rot sat on her like a second skin, and despite her best efforts, it would not be removed. Slowly, she rinsed her arms clean and stood, turning to face the churning sea. Too ashamed to ask her gods for help, or forgiveness, she slowly looked away from the waters and began to walk back to the dry sand of the beachhead.

"Trojan bitch lost her master?" Her throat closed to a pin's-breadth as her heart trip-hammered against her chest. The voice had come from behind a large group of rocks just to her left, and at first, when she turned to meet the owner of it, she had not been able to see him. Suddenly, one of the black shapes she had for a moment thought to be one of the stones shifted with an almost lithe grace into the sunlight, his dark garb and even darker countenance having concealed him within the shadows.

The scar running down his face was unmistakable and as Briseis scrambled within her mind to think of something- anything to say that might delay his movement and give her a moment to think, she realized with a horrifying chill that she was unable to move. Her body was frozen in place, her mind too crowded and her legs and arms too numb to react, to save herself.

"Can't speak for yourself, eh? Need your good master around to bring you to heel? Make you speak?" He was so close now the smell was overwhelming. Now there was no doubt as to what had caused the stench of death she had been wondering over earlier- the man was clothed head to toe in great stinking waves of putrefaction and the sickly sweet stench of rotten flesh. Apparently, his punishment for Briseis had not only disfigured his face, but his stature had also been stripped and he was now assigned to tend to the dead of battle. Briseis felt her head swim as she struggled to remain upright, the fumes nearly causing her to retch.

"What, my pretty bitch? Don't like the smell? Not to worry. My stink will be the last thing you'll have to concern yourself with once you're turned out of Achilles' bed." His lip curled into a smile that dropped her stomach to her feet. Quickly, his hand shot out and grabbed her breast, squeezing the nipple so tightly she felt her knees buckle as she cried out in shock and pain. He laughed and twisted tighter.

"Remember me, my pretty. I'll come back for you when he's done rutting with animals- then you'll be mine until you join your dead on the pyres." His hand released her and she dropped to her knees, too stunned and too terrified for words. He slipped silently back into the shadows, leaving her alone on the stretch of sand.

Her chest ached where he had pulled at the tender flesh, and the imprint of his hand would not quit its hold on her. She found her legs again and stood, not hesitating for a moment as she ran back towards Achilles. Now she knew with a heavy certainty that no matter what strings the Fates had woven together to create the line of her life, they were unraveling faster than could be mended. One way or another, she was soon going to meet her death.


	5. Part V

Stepping from the scorched sand of the Trojan shore across the threshold of his tent and into the shade that sun-baked leather provided was like slipping into a pool of water deliciously cool to the touch. A design, unique to the Myrmidons, had kept the insides of their temporary abodes comfortable enough to inhabit on even the most hellacious of summer days, while at the same time allowing enough light inside to easily see by. Warriors could not afford to be creatures of comfort, so often were they afield and far from a welcoming bed, but a refuge against the unrelenting heat of midsummer never went amiss.

Achilles felt his nerves popping like sticks of kindling in the throat of a raging fire. The airy comfort of the tent surrounding him only felt like a cage from which he must be freed, its cooling stillness did nothing to calm his thoughts. Wroth fell around his shoulders like a heavy mantle, wrapping him inside his own silence.

The sun passed its zenith and continued on its journey to be swallowed by the sea. Before his passing, Helios threw arms of orange, red and gold across the horizon, his final stand before bowing to the moon to carry on a watchful guard over her children on earth and in the nighttime sky. Even as the shadows grew long at his feet, Achilles did not move, but instead allowed his mind to sieve through the morass of thoughts that clouded his vision and would make him slow to react when he finally came to meet Hector on the battlefield.

That Hector was a man of honor Achilles had no doubt. His challenge would be met by the man who had slain Patroclus, and no one else. The elder prince of Troy was unlike his impulsive, dainty younger brother, Paris- and he was also the more skilled with a blade. It would occur to him in a moment of absurd clarity a few hours hence, as Hector would throw his weight into a blow that would rattle Achilles' arm to the point of breaking, that he had not thought earlier about the obvious skill the man he was challenging to battle would possess.

Now though, sitting with the muddled thoughts of combat poisoned by wrath and the need for vengeance, the question of whether or not what he was hurtling toward might not be his own death did not cross Achilles' mind. He could see no further than the doorway of his own tent, and though his eyes might look at the familiar trappings that surrounded him, they saw nothing but blade and shield and man.

That battle all who were called in the songs of the immortals must wage was coming, of that he had no doubt. Born to this life, screaming with healthy lungs and kicking with legs covered in the blood of his family line, Achilles had somehow always known that he would leave it with the same blunt determination. Now he would either part from his mortal coil bearing the trophy of Hector, Prince of Troy, or else meet the blade of this man as Hades' own hand hewing his life away.

He did not immediately notice her when she came in, though she paused in the doorway for several minutes, oddly standing as though in a dream. Now, through the darkness he rose, eyes breaking the surface of a boiling sea to stare at something beyond himself. Against the doorway, and lost in thoughts of her own, she looked so small and delicate. How like some tremulous creature she was! In her dark blue dress that fell oddly large about her shoulders, she looked very much like a bird with rich plumage, wings folded gracefully at her side.

His eyes were suddenly filled with a vision of her flying above the battlefield, arms outstretched in a graceful arc, hair flying behind in a rich, earthy tangle. The screams of the dying, the relentless clashing of steel upon steel, of metal upon bone, and the noxious stench of sweat, fear, and death all faded to distant memory as she soared ever further from the fight. So far did she fly that all memory of his life seemed forgotten, and upon landing they walked together, silent, discovering the world around them as children born anew.

What he would not have given in that moment to follow that vision and allow his footsteps to wander far from this place and this life he had known. But the vision was broken, and like water spilled upon the sand, he could not retrieve what was now lost.

His focus again bent to the task at hand, and pushing Briseis into a small room of his mind, he quietly shut the door.

She felt wretched and sore. As she had made her way back to Achilles' tent, she had heard of Hector's actions and knew what they must mean. Everyone expected Achilles to fight. No one expected Achilles to lose.

Hector had been a brother to her since she was born. Though not of the same parents, they were as alike in mind and spirit as any two siblings sharing a mother's womb might have been. He had shared her confidence as an uncertain youth and helped her through many struggles. To think that he might die seemed impossible, and yet to stand against the wroth of Achilles seemed equally unfathomable.

Now she understood the cry she had heard from the battlefield- Achilles' rage could rattle the foundations of the earth; even the Gods must have felt some small trembling. She recognized the sound of loss and pain, her heart had made that sound the moment, when standing upon the steps of the temple, she had seen her fellow Trojans first cut down. In that moment her thoughts had turned to Hector and Paris- her brothers from birth. Were they fighting? Were they safe? The world had so suddenly felt upside down.

Too long buried in her thoughts, she had not noticed that she was now standing in the doorway of the now familiar Myrmidon tent. Cool shadow slipped over her like water, releasing the grip of the summer heat from her skin. As she roused back to the present, she started to find Achilles staring directly at her, his eyes wandering for a moment over her body, returning to her face, and once there, filling with some passing emotion. For a moment it had looked to Briseis like regret and sorrow, as though in a moment he had longed for and lost some beautiful dream. The moment passed and his eyes returned to the sand in front of him, all thought of her now locked in some distant place.

She crossed to the sand opposite where he sat on the edge of the bed and sat on the warm earth. Through that connection, in this quiet place, she closed her eyes and slowly, willfully dropped everything from her mind. The soldier's hands on her flesh, the fear for Hector's life, the bruises and cuts that ran over her body- everything slipped in single over her shoulders and pooled at her side on the ground. In this moment, for only this moment, she felt calm. The world was not so upside down, and the future was not so dim.

She did not know how long she stayed in that suspended state, but when her eyes once again opened, Achilles was gone. Her heart leapt into her throat and in an instant she was on her feet. She flew to the doorway, the sound of her blood crashing against her ears and the blinding sunlight temporarily stunning her as she staggered against the wooden poles that lined the doorway.

Her eyes searched until she found what she dreaded to see. Achilles stood, glowing like the sun in his golden armor behind a dark courser. The animal's nostrils flared as he pawed at the ground, obviously ready to be off now that he was harnessed to a chariot. Achilles stepped into the chariot and grabbed up the reigns, giving them a tug to stop the horse from leaping forward at the change in weight.

Carried by a force she could not control, Briseis flew toward him as fast as her legs would carry her and threw herself onto the ground at his feet.

"Please! Hector is my cousin- he is a good man!" She could not cry, though she felt her eyes sting with tears unshed. Achilles did not meet her eyes, but paused only a moment to hear her words before violently throwing the reigns against the flanks of the horse. The sound cut through the air like a whip, snapping some small string in her heart as the animal bellowed and leapt forward, carrying Achilles away to the gates of Troy.


	6. Part VI

a/n: I'm not proud of how long I've drug this out and I'm sorry it's not yet complete. There will be only one more part after this and hopefully I will have that update in before the summer ends. All of my readers have been wonderfully supportive- you're honestly the reason I've not entirely given up on this little bit o' fluff.

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She did not remember returning to the tent, nor how long she had been sitting on the floor. When she came to herself, she noticed with only mild surprise that there was a long, ugly cut along her calf, freshly opened and bleeding. Her leg was wrapped in slick ribbons of red that were pooling at her foot in the packed sand.

Her eyes dragged across the room, following the thin trail of blood starting from the edge of the water stand. She must have scratched herself when she had come back inside, though she could remember nothing of the incident, nor could she feel any pain from the wound. Her last conscious thought was of Achilles, his back to her, the charging courser in front of him, the wheels of the chariot as it rolled beyond her sight, bearing her hope away and leaving only despair in its wake.

Mechanically, she picked at the edge of her dress until a loose thread appeared. She tugged at it, pulling the delicately sewn decorative hem away from the more plain, blue fabric. Once freed, she wrapped it around her cut, carefully tying it in tight knot to stop the bleeding. Now finished, her hands were coated in a fresh lacquer of blood. She curled her knees up to her chest and stared at them, watching in grim fascination as the shiny coat slowly darkened to a matte, rich burgundy and then to a scaly, nearly black-scarlet.

_"Hector?"_

_"Mmm?"_

_"Will there be war? With the Greeks, I mean."_

_"Little sister, I have prayed to the gods many times that such a thing will not come to pass, but now…I fear it may."_

_"Can anything be done?"_

_"We can honor our parents, comfort our children, love our husbands and wives, give our little sisters a kiss on the forehead…and wait."_

_"I do not fear the Greeks."_

_"They are fierce warriors. They say even Achilles may cross the sea if it comes to war."_

_"I do not fear them, even Achilles."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because you are here."_

The sun's rays had stretched long, golden strips across the floor of the tent, and still Briseis had heard nothing of the duel. Surely it was all over by now? One way or another, she had lost something precious to her- something that could never be replaced or returned.

Slowly, a rumble began in the camp. It was distant at first, but like a gathering wave, rolled and collected its strength as it bore down on her. There were shouts, words she could not discern and cries that could have easily been either joy or shock.

The tent flap suddenly flew back, and there stood Achilles, his golden armor dulled red and dusty. A cry of anguish rose from deep within her chest, calling out across the veils of this world to Hector's spirit beyond, telling him of her broken heart, her fear and the sudden emptiness in her chest.

His arms hung heavy and sore at his sides. Every muscle called to attention only a few short hours ago now was battered and bruised, their memories long and unforgiving as they cried in pain. He flexed his fingers, slowly curling and uncurling them, trying to bring back feeling after having gripped his sword to the point of numbness.

In his mind, the battle played out over and over. At first he had pressed the attack too strongly, and Hector had repaid his foolishness with a few quick blows. Achilles had thrown himself against Hector's shield like an ocean wave wearing at a stubborn jut of land and in so doing lost more ground than he gained.

The battle had changed slowly in his favor, but the final victory had come at a great effort- a struggle worthy of the gods and their bloodlust. Achilles had felt his sword drive into Hector, had felt the life leave the prince of Troy and in that moment knew that this was his destiny. His world would forever be found in the dust and sweat and blood of battle, and never in the laughter of his children or in the arms of his wife.

He felt no honor in the death. Once accomplished, with Hector's body tied to his chariot for all those peering eyes over the city walls of Troy to see, Achilles had instead felt empty. There was a great hollowness inside him now, one that the death of Hector had created, and the knowledge of Patroclus' avenging had not refilled.

He drug the body through the sand, in front of those who had loved and known him best, in front of those who had looked to Hector as a symbol of Troy's invincibility. He had felled their hero, and now stood as the specter of Hades himself, born in blood and wrath, destined to raze their way of life to the ground. The wails of anguish from the city walls deepened the emptiness.

He had returned to the encampment not to the sound of cheering, but instead to wide-eyes and whispers, to looks of fear and uncertainty. Like a once-loyal dog turned feral, he felt treated like a mistrusted animal- tolerated for his usefulness but not allowed any measure of real trust.

The look on Briseis' face when he stepped into the tent took the edges of his emptiness and ripped them as far across as they would stretch. Completely hollowed, he collapsed onto the bed, his eyes staring ahead but seeing nothing. She remained on the floor, her legs curled up against her chest, her face a mixture of terror and agony. The space between them was more than just the span of the tent- it stretched much farther, a chasm that no bridge could cross.

Hours passed, and the shadows that speared across the floor of the tent slowly faded into the darkness of night. The Agean crashed relentlessly outside, and tonight it seemed particularly noisome. It seemed to accuse Achilles with every thunderous clash as it churned against the shoreline, continuing a prolonged bellow that would not allow him to rest. He had killed one of Troy's heroes, and even the land and sea itself had felt the echoes of his infamy.

Briseis made no move to come near him, but it seemed just as well that she remain where she was. Achilles now knew that he had crossed the tipping point, and now he could not reverse his fate. He had laid the path himself, and was now bound to follow it to the end. Briseis could only ever be more blood on his hands.

They remained as they were for many hours, neither speaking nor making any motion. Comforting platitudes and the touch of a lover's hand were distant, loathsome ideas as they sat in the suffocating presence of death's spectre.

Achilles' thoughts had wandered far from the battle, and now rested only on that thin point of light in the ever-swelling darkness around him that marked his departure from this life and his entry into the realm of the immortals. Hector had been a good man; Briseis with her determination to hold on to those she loved best had tried to tell him that.

A good man.

A father, a brother, a son. Achilles' had killed the mortal flesh, but he had not killed the spirit. It lived on, he could see it even in her eyes- those large, brown pools that were awash with tears of pain and loss. He shut his thoughts from the accusation, from the agony he could see written so plainly there.

Having sat so long in stillness and in silence, the sudden movement of the tent flap was enough to startle both of them. A stooped figure, head cloaked in roughspun fabric pushed his way into the tent, turning his back to Briseis and shuffling to Achilles' feet.

A hand, veined and curled with age reached up to the hem of the hood; something deep within Briseis quickened and her heart began to beat faster. As the cowl fell backward, she could see the shock of white hair, the familiar form and slope of the shoulders- everything crashed against her and caught her breath in her throat.

"Priam." Achilles was on his feet, his face drawn down in confusion and sudden fear. He had killed this man's son, and now he stood within a dagger's length of his arm. Achilles' blood was pounding in startled fear- was this man here to avenge his fallen son, the heir to his line? He had managed to disguise himself and slip unseen through the defensive lines, he had walked into the tent as though it were as familiar as his own home, and now he stood before a man still covered in the blood of his eldest child. Achilles understood well the fearless rush that bore vengeance on swift feet, heedless of risk and desirous of blood.

But this man, this king, did not hold himself defensively. He produced neither sword nor spear from the thick folds of his cloak. Instead he fell to his knees at Achilles' feet- an action which only served to confuse and frighten Achilles all the more. Why kneel at the feet of a man you could do nothing else but hate? What pride could this king have left after having genuflected before a common soldier?

"I ask for the body of my son." His voice was cracked with emotion and the years of his long life. He had lived to see too much. His beloved city was panicked, his warriors dying on bleached sand and rock in front of their families and now, now Achilles had kicked out one of the few remaining supports that had kept everything hopeful and upright. With Hector gone, Priam had suddenly been forced to shoulder a crushing weight.

And now, bent under that tremendous load, he begged for the mangled body of his son.

"I ask not as a king, but as a father. Allow me to take him back to his people, allow me to anoint him with oils and send him peacefully to his home beyond this world. Allow me to grieve for my son." He begged with palms up and open, a position of complete supplication that was taught to slaves. Achilles had never before in his life seen any free man plead in such a manner.

Briseis shifted against the wall, watching the scene with rapt attention. The desire to comfort Priam as he spoke in rattling, broken phrases nearly overwhelmed the common sense that held her back. After so long drifting amongst the invading hoard, she had nearly forgotten the comfort of a familiar face; the impulse to reach for that single thread of her former life was nearly beyond her ability to control.

Priam continued to speak to Achilles, the latter's face drawing down into deeper lines of shame and regret with each passing moment. A king of men calling upon a foot soldier, even one so great as Achilles, was uncommon, but to have the noble father of a slain prince begging at his feet was unheard of. Achilles shifted his weight uncomfortably between his feet, anxious to curtail the conversation without insulting the king kneeling in the hard packed earth of his tent.

Achilles' eyes flickered from Priam to Briseis, and she knew what his decision would be.


End file.
